


Rule Of Thumb

by PBJellie



Series: South Park Kink Meme Requests [7]
Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Divorce, F/F, F/M, POV First Person, Physical Abuse, Smut, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-28 22:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14459145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBJellie/pseuds/PBJellie
Summary: Linda experiences a separation from Stephen.Written for the South Park Kink Meme





	Rule Of Thumb

“We just want to ask you a few questions.”    
  
I nod.   


 

* * *

  
  
I am standing in the kitchen, hovering around the sink. Where I always stand. Where I always am. Well, surely, not always. There must be times when I am not here, not doing this. 

I cannot recall any. 

So I must always be here. 

“Shucks,” a voice too high to be my son's sighs, “go ahead, be the D word that drops his daughter from the insurance. It won't be the worst thing you've ever done.” 

“Leopold,” he shouts, his voice no higher or lower than normal, “you are my son, God dammit, and I won't be supporting you through this childish phase. Isn't that right, Linda?” 

I do not say anything. I am at the sink, like always.

“My name ain't Leo no more,” the too high voice whispers. Leopold has not come to visit us in quite some time. 

But he's here right now, isn't he?

“Your name is whatever I tell you it is!” He screams, and I swear, I swear his voice breaks a dish in the cabinet. I can hear it shatter, even though I know that's not how voices work. That Stephen Stotch, in all of his power of presence and commanding tone, cannot shatter glasses. 

“No, it ain't. My name is-”

More glass splintering into tiny fragments, this time I turn and see that it's a mug, Fiestaware in a vibrant orange, broken into little shards on the kitchen floor. 

My kitchen floor.

The one I just swept. 

“Your name is Leopold Stotch! And it'd serve you well to remember your fucking place,” The last part is softer, more ominous. No gentler or kinder, just softer. Pitch and tone are not that same. 

I remember that bit from my semester at college.

I'm kneeling, picking up chips and pieces of stoneware from the floor, no dust pan. Just my hands. Hands work fine, Stephen always says. Hands do the job just as well, if you ever tried at anything, Linda. I recall trying, but I must have been mistaken. 

The water is running as I clean the floor. 

This is a mistake.

A mistake I know not to make. 

I made a mistake. 

 

* * *

 

  
  
“Ma’am, can you tell me what happened in there?” A man in a black outfit says, notepad in hand.    
  
“Happened where?” I ask, glancing down at my feet. I do not have shoes on. I am outside without shoes. Stephen will be disappointed.    


“In your living room,” he repeated, “your son, that is your son, correct?” He points to a brunette woman, clad in a red dress with a cinched waist. His badge glistens beneath the street light.    
  
“Yes,” I mouth, trying to catch the red dress’ eye. Her hair is a dark brown, the color of dirt.    
  
“He said that your husband was choking you, do you remember that?”    
  
“You gonna trust the word of some tranny?” An officer, a shock of red hair peeks out from underneath his hat. “He don’t know who he is, doubt he knows what really happened here. These domestic conflicts are messy. No need to investigate. We won’t even get to the bottom of it anyway.”    
  
I am nodding. My head bobs up and down as the officers talk. I’m not looking at them, not for more than a few seconds, then my eyes dart back to the red dress. It’s very red, like blood.    
  
I look down, there is blood on my hands.    


 

* * *

  
  
  
“No, it ain’t. My name is…” I don’t hear the end of the statement. I don’t know that voice, but I am in my kitchen. I am in my kitchen washing a glass. Something shatters, it’s a harsh sound, and I focus my eyes downward. The glass in my hands is intact.    
  
I turn around, just my torso, twisting like an owl. Butters had a toy owl, a hand painted wooden owl. It had huge painted on eyes, they were blue. The head of the toy would spin. Steven threw it away, saying the bow he painted on it’s head with my red nail polish was too feminine.    
  
Our boy couldn’t be feminine.    
  
I let him toss it.    
  
Behind me is a broken mug, a woman’s mug. I don’t recall inviting a woman over, but I don’t send the invites, that’s Stephen’s job. I kneel down and pick up shards of mug in silence.   


“Your name is Leopold Stotch! And it'd serve you well to remember your fucking place,” Stephen is screaming and I am on the floor. Did he throw me on the floor? No, he didn’t. I am cleaning up this mess, this mess this stranger left in my home. She didn’t even apologize.    
  
The water is running. The water has been running this whole time. Never leave the water running, Linda. You know better than that. You know better than to make such stupid mistakes.    
  
It’s a stupid mistake.   
  
I am making a stupid mistake as I see his brown shoes, scuffs on the toes, step in front of me.    


 

* * *

  
  


“Mom,” a brunette woman in a green top, the top two buttons undone whispers, hands clasped around mine.   
  
“What?” I ask, feeling myself plummet back into my body.    
  
“Mom, we were all real worried about you.”   
  
“Who?” I ask, letting the woman keep my hand. Maybe she’s a girl, not a woman. Her eyes aren’t lined with crow’s feet, nor are her eyes bogged down with dark bags. But she could just be adept with make-up. Younger than her, but not young.

“I don’t know what Mephesto has you on,” the woman says, carding her fingers through her hair. Steven did not like that hair color. Women were better off blonde, he said. If a woman didn’t look good with blonde hair, then she didn’t look good at all.   
  
“Mephesto?”   
  
“Mom, can you focus, please?” Her hands are on my leg, cotton candy pink nails trimmed to the quick, with little chips in the polish. I am wearing a paper gown. It’s crinkling as she drums her fingers, rustling every time she fidgets.   
  
“What did you say? 

  
“Please, please just divorce him,” she sighs, pulling her hand back. A TV hangs across the room, with a blue ticker tape of weather running across the bottom. It scrolls faster than I can read it.   
  
Can anyone read that fast?

 

* * *

There is a shattered mug on the ground, bits of orange ceramic scattered around the tile. Did it nick the tile on the way down? Can a mug damage tile? Is there a way to repair a scratched stone? 

The water is running. Why did I leave the water running? That is a mistake.    
  
I am making a mistake.    
  
How can I make such a careless, silly, mistake?    
  
There is a hand around my throat; I am being moved back to the sink. I am floating across the floor, hovering.    
  
My feet do not touch the ground.   
  


* * *

 

  
“Mom,” she sighs, the woman from before, the brunette, I used to be a brunette, “we need a permanent solution. I can’t go home with clear conscious leaving you in Jimbo’s motel.”    
  
“Mom?” I ask, my tongue feeling like cotton.    
  
“Mom,” the woman rolls her eyes, “I’ve transitioned, you should still be able to recognize your own damn kid. You’re better than him.”    
  
“Transitioned?”    
  
“It’s Butters,” she shouts, then frowns when I flinch. “It’s Butters,” she repeats, voice lower, head ducked, as if she were trying to bait a frightened cat.   
  
“Butters?”    
  
“Yeah, ma,” she smiles,” it’s Butters.” 

 

* * *

 

  
I am floating.    
  
I am floating above bits of orange and steely grey tile with white grout. Perfectly white grout. White grout that days earlier, or maybe it was only hours, I had knelt and scrubbed with a toothbrush and baking soda, grinding the gritty paste into the crevasses. It did indeed brighten the grout, as the magazine promised.   
  
He did not notice it.   
  
Or if he did, he didn’t say anything to me. He is the one holding me by the throat. Now would not be the time to tell me he appreciated me going the extra mile.   
  
I was moving back to the sink, where the water was flowing over the dish I baked the au gratin potatoes in. I meant to soak it, I did. Soak it to get the dried, crusty bits of cheese and potato off of the corners and the edges.    
  
You don’t have to leave the water on to soak something. Why is the water running?   
  
It was a mistake to leave the water running.

 

* * *

  
  
  
“Mom needs somewhere to live,” she, Butters, this is Butters, back after four years of college where he refused to come home for visits.   
  
“You listen to me, mister,” she flinches at the word, “neither of you are getting one red cent. Not a one.”   
  
“He isn’t asking for anything. You’re upsetting him!” I shout back, something coming over me, a wave of agitation and rage. How dare Stephen yell at our child? What gives him the right?   
  
“He’s asking me to house your freeloading ass,” he roars, puffing up his chest. Butters acts as a barrier, blocking me from the yelling, diffusing it with his body.   
  
No, she diffuses it with her body.  
  
The yelling is diffused, all the same.  
  
Butters has brunette hair that isn’t dyed.   
  
“She,” he says, clicking red heels on the cement porch. “I am your daughter. Call me she, it’s real simple.”   
  
“You don’t give a fuck what she calls you,” he huffs, going to shut the door. As it creaks closed, she, Butters is a she, real simple, forces a foot, a red heel, into the door jam. “Scram!”  
  
“You know why, and I’m awfully sore about it, Dad. Awfully sore. Let her get her things, we’ll figure it out from there.” She pauses, the throws the weight of herself against the door, bulldozing her way in there.   
  
“I didn’t say you could come in,” he shouts, but the door stays open.  
  
“I stabbed you once,” she hisses, “I’ll do it again, if I have to.” I follow her inside the house, my house. Was it my house? I certainly didn’t pay for the house.   
  
“Don’t take a single thing that isn’t yours,” he glares at Butters, but says, “Linda.”   
  
“She won’t,” she grumbles, holding my hand as she leads me up the stairs. “Just pack a bag and we’ll figure out where you’re gonna go.” 

* * *

  
  
I am in the air. I am in the air above an overflowing sink, a waterfall cascading down the front of pristine cabinets.    
  
Oh, I left the water on.    
  
Oh, no.   


 

* * *

  
  


“Do not do the dishes,” Butters sighs, hauling a black duffle bag over her shoulder. “Do not do the dishes for this man.    
  
“She couldn’t even do the dishes correctly,” Stephen scoffs, his hands squeezed into a fist. I wince, waiting for the hammer to drop. “I don’t even want her to touch my dishes anymore.” 

  
“And she don’t want to,” she says with a twang. Where did she pick up a Southern accent? She’s not Southern, she just isn’t. Colorado is too far north for that sort of sound. Where do I know that sound?    
  
College.   
  
I had a boyfriend in college, the boyfriend before Stephen, who was from Tennessee. In my one semester of schooling, I went through three boyfriends. It was a thinly veiled secret, why I was in school. I was in school to get married.   
  
Marry a good Christian man, and pop out a couple kids. Be obedient and docile. And I tried and I tried to fit that mold, but somehow the moments lined up to my son, in a dress, packing my bag as I stare at the kitchen sink.    


 

* * *

  
  
  
My hand is on the faucet, not the knobs, but the head of the faucet, as if that would stop the water. It does not.   
  
I am suspended above the sink, both hands gripping the neck of the thing, squeezing as tightly as I can. It’s an anchor. Even if the water doesn’t stop. It’s anchoring me in this moment. In this crisis.   
  
“You know what you did wrong?”    
  
I made a mistake, I know I made a mistake.    
  
I don’t say anything.   
  


* * *

  
  


“My ma needs somewhere to sleep,” Butters says, staring at Liane Cartman. I’m not staring. I glance at a bush on the right side of the doorway, eyes tracing a bug. It’s a fly of some kind, and it buzzes slightly away from the bush, then gets scared and retreats.    
  
Voices are talking. Two women. They speak and I nod, watching the fly dart in and out of the bush. She’ll never leave, that fly. She’ll never really leave.    
  
It’d be too much work to leave.

* * *

 

  
“You know what you did wrong?”    
  


I don’t say anything because I can’t. I can’t because his hand, maybe it’s both hands, it feels strong enough to be both, are around my neck. Strangling me like I strangle the faucet. Me strangling the faucet doesn’t stop the water.   
  
I tilt my head down and see it’s pooling around his shoes. No wonder he’s so angry.    
  
“Put her down!” A high shriek from behind me, then a chair scraping against the ground. 

  
He must be using both hands. He must, because he doesn’t stop the sink. If he had a free hand, he’d had stemmed the damage, stopped the bleeding. But he doesn’t. 

 

* * *

 

 

“I don't have a job for her,” Skeeter says, eyes scanning the empty bar.

“Then make one,” Liane replies, fingernails tapping. 

I hang back. It's not like I've had a job before. I can't, in earnest, advocate for being a good employee. I never worked outside the home, and if you ask my husband I didn't work well inside the home either. 

I suppose he is my ex-husband. 

Not that the forms are filed. 

There must be something between ex-husband and husband, some term to describe the state of chaos. 

“We both know, it don't work like that.”

“I think we both know, it will,” Liane leans over the bar, breasts resting on the counter as she pulls on the lapel of his coat. “I know too much for it to not.”

It's sexy, in an odd kind of way. Like most things Liane does. Her hand tightens on the coat, making him bend. He looks up at her, and for a second, just a fraction of a second, I wish I was Skeeter.

“Is that a threat, Miss Liane?” 

“I dunno, Mister Skeeter,” she lets the words roll off her tongue, turning up her nose as she bats her eyes. “I'm just a nice lady from a small town, I don't know nothing about no threats.” 

She lets him go, and I can breathe again. 

“What can she even do?” He asks, making eye contact with me. I, almost immediately, break it, dodging his glare by doing a sweep of the perimeter. The bar is dirty. Dust coats the baseboards, and beneath the dust is splashes of cheap beer. A good brush, one with firm bristles, would serve them well. You'd probably have to scrub all the paint off, if they are indeed painted black and not just black with muck, but it couldn't be more than a gallon to do the whole place.

Someone ought to handle it. 

“Linda, need you to focus, dear,” Liane's voice cuts through my thoughts, disapproving, yet gentle. “They say the first months of separation are the hardest. How long has Steven been gone?” 

“I don't know,” I lied. Eight days. 

“You wouldn't turn a divorcee away, now would you? We're a small town, upstanding folks got to care for other upstanding folks,” a smile spreads across her face as her eyes narrow. 

“‘Since you happen to be providing her husband other services on a weekly basis down at the baths.”

“We ain't talking about that here,” he hisses, the furiously whispers something to Liane. She just smiles, not even giving him the reassurance of a nod.

Liane is so pretty when she smiles. Did she know this? Maybe she spent her whole life not knowing this, but that seems unlikely. The way she maneuvers through life, leaning into conversations with men, tilting her head as they speak, and jutting her hips to the side, tells me that she knew.

“How does that sound?” Liane asks, looking back at me, still smiling.

“Good,” I choke out, looking back to the floor. 

“She can start next week,” Skeeter shakes his head, fiddling with a wash rag. “You got my balls in a vice grip, Liane. Guess that's what you do, what you're known for round these parts.” 

“I've touched 'em nicely too,” she nods, shrugging her shoulders. “Let's not forget about my past services.”

“Go on now, get gone,” he shouts, though it was followed by a laugh. Is he angry and about to fly off the handle? Is that his tell? 

“Come on, Linda,” Liane grabs my by the hand, the wrist, like a child. “Tell him thank you, he just gave you a job.” 

“What?” I ask, mouth feeling dry. 

“You're gonna do the dishes and the cleaning. Just like at home, but for money. Get you back on your feet.” 

“Thank you!” I shout as we walk through the door. There is a man outside, smoking a cigar, not a real one, but a sweet smelling Black and Mild, the kind you see in gas stations two for a dollar. Or is it three?

I couldn't say.

“Linda,” her voice cuts, snapping me out of my head. “You there?” 

“Well, I suppose so. There as I ever am.” 

 

* * *

  
  
“Put her down!”   
  
He doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. A lake is forming beneath me, it must be up to my nose by now, because I can’t breathe.    
  
I can’t breathe.   
  
I try to breathe again, and I can’t.    
  
When I can’t, I panic. I try to scream, but despite forcing my lungs in on themselves I can’t make any noise. I can’t make a sound leave my mouth. I can’t do it.   
  
“I’m callin’ the cops,” a woman says. She sounds a bit like me, her voice does. Is she Butters? “Put ma down or I’m calling the cops!”    
  
I’m still in the air, and I still can’t breathe.    
  
Then it is dark.   


 

* * *

“Steven very much wanted me to be blonde,” I fidget with the box of hair dye, turning it over in my hands, staring at the model plastered on all sides of the box. My hair never turns quite that shade, it was always a tone or two darker. “So I was blond.”

“Well, I suppose you don't have to be anymore,” Liane says, plucking the box from my hands.

“Brown isn't a pretty color; he likes what he likes.”

“You’re getting divorced,” Liane shrugs, like it wasn't the man I built my whole life around. “It doesn't have to be that, either.”

“It might be easier, to just keep it blond.” And with that the box is back on the kitchen counter. Stephen doesn’t like when my roots show. There are standards to upkeep.

“If that's what you want,” Liane sighs, slinking over to the fridge. She grabs a coffee mug on her way, pulling it still wet from the drying rack. I was never allowed to let things drip dry, that left spots and streaks. That won’t do in my household, in Stephen’s household.

  
I live with Liane, now. It’s acceptable here.

“I don't know what I want, Liane,” I admit, toying half heartedly with the box again. “It’s better to let someone else pick.”

“I'm not interested in making your decisions,” she laughs dryly, pouring wine from a nozzle into her mug. I could never do that, that’s not a wine glass, and according to Stephen, that boxed stuff isn't really wine anyways.

I’ve never tried it. Not even in the last three weeks with Liane. Like I’d be breaching some sacred barrier of what was wine and how you drink, and when you drink, and, most importantly, who you drink with.

“Neither am I,” I whisper, tipping the box over. The model smiles, anyways. That’s her job, her purpose. You could set that box on fire and the model would still smile, up until the cardboard is in cinders, and still, still then she is smiling.

“Just keep it blond this go around, okay? Buy you time to figure things out,” Liane says after taking a drink. It stains her upper lip red and highlights the plaque on her teeth. She walks towards me, picking the box up, and skimming the back. She opens it, and instructs me to sit at her table with a single finger. 

“You don't have to.”

“I know.”

“It's nice when someone else does it. I always did Butters. He liked the feeling of my hands in his hair. I mean she, shit, I meant she,” and I am almost crying. That is my current state of being though, a perpetual state of almost crying.

“She understands,” she reassures me, mixing two things in a bottle. I’ve done this exact kit at least a hundred times, and I can’t tell you what she’s mixing. 

“She should have let him kill me,” it comes out without me thinking. I sniffle. 

“Hush,” she orders, even though her voice is soft. I don’t though. I am disobedient. 

“I can't even remember how my kid wants to be referred to. Why bother saving me?” I sniffle again, half wondering if I’ve run out of tears to cry. 

“She understands, I'm sure,” she reassures. She reassures me, despite my outburst. Like it didn’t even matter that I didn’t listen. Like it wasn’t important. “I can give you a moment.”

“Stay,” I rush out. I think I say it before her statement is over. I take a breath, looking at her hands in those silly plastic gloves. “Please, please just stay. I don't want to be alone.”   
  
And she stays. She stays and silently cards her hands through my hair, massaging the dye and combing it evenly. I don’t say anything, either.

“Twenty minutes and I'll wash it out. Or you can,” her words startle me, causing me to jump. I hope I don’t get dye on her chair.    
  


“I’d like it if you did,” I say without thinking.  “Am I allowed to ask that?”

“You're allowed to do anything, hun.”

For a moment I think that’s true.   


 

* * *

  
“I’m calling the cops.”    
  
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.    
  
Then it is dark.    
  


* * *

 

  
“A lady has to work,” Liane says, popping the top on a beer. There’s a blue ribbon on the can, but her hand covers most of it. We never had that kind of beer in the house; Stephen never really drank beer. He drank these awful things that were green, shaped a bit like hand grenades. 

  
“You work?” I ask, staring at an unopened beer setting on the coffee table, presumably for me.    
  
“Course I do, hun,” she laughs, taking a sip. The sip lasts a few seconds. More of a drink than a sip. “I take care of men when they’re too lazy to masturbate.”    
  
She accents this with a snort, leaning back on the couch and kicking her bare feet onto the table. I squirm as I watch her tongue trace her lips. Her red lipstick is smudged, remnants haunt the can.    
  
“Teach me how you do it?” I ask, my nails dig into my thighs as I sit on her couch. The audacity of me.    
  
“Teach you?” She asks, fingers tapping on the can. Her nails are a dark pink, all the same length. Polished and perfected. “Don’t think this is the job for you, sweetheart.”   
  
“Yeah, teach me,” I repeat, against my better judgement. “I want to know how.”    
  
“Know how to do what? Linda, you aren’t making any sense.”    
  
“How men take care of themselves,” I stutter, wishing I was drinking a beer like her. She sends me a look, one eyebrow raised. “M-A-S-T-U-R-B-A-T-E,” I spell, voice low.    
  
“What is this? A sleepover?” She laughs. Little bits of spit fly from her mouth, onto the coffee table and the carpet. I move to clean it, but she puts her hand out, a stop sign. Collect yourself, Linda. You don’t have to clean while you’re here, Linda. Just act like a normal person, Linda.    
  
“- you listening?”    
  
“Uh-huh,” and she knows what the word means. She knows that means I haven’t been, I haven’t been listening to her. My eyes have been trained on the speckles of spit splattered against the table.    
  
“Go upstairs,” not a command. Not everything someone says to you is a command. Liane doesn’t command. Not usually.    
  
I go upstairs, feet carrying me without much thought through the hallway. I sit on her bed. The bottom left corner of the sheets on the bed are pulled off, showing the stained mattress below.   
  
I pull it taught, and rock on my heels for a few moments, before sitting down. The palms of my hands are slipping off of my knees, wet with a fine mist of sweat. She isn’t in the room. I am alone.    
  
Then she is here, and relief floods my body. She sits down next to my on the bed, gesturing at my pants. I wipe my hands, once, twice, on my legs, and stare, wide eyed as she keeps pointing to me.    
  
“Take off your pants, sweetie.”   
  
“The lights are on,” I mumble out. I had not thought this far ahead. I had not thought about what happens if she said yes. I duck my head down, and unzip my pants, giving each tooth of metal in its own second to disengage.    
  
“It’s okay, pumpkin, just lay back, okay?” I nod, sloughing off my pants, as if I were a snake shedding, slowly removing an unnecessary layer of skin. “We need the lights on so I can show you what to do. That's what you want, right?” 

“Yes,” I say, quicker and louder than I intended. My voice bounces around the room, and my eyes follow. There's a picture of Eric, pudgy and smiling with his eyes half closed on the nightstand. I want to turn him away, flip the frame face down onto the lace doily, but I don't. 

I don't even breathe as she takes off my underwear.

“You sure you want to do this,” there's a gentle lilt to her voice. A reassurance I haven't heard in years, maybe even decades. 

I nod. 

“Well,” she clears her throat, throwing up a business woman demeanor, like a lawyer in a courtroom on TV. A lady pretending to be a lawyer. “First things first,” I nod again, fighting to focus, “you have to think of something that makes you excited.” 

“What?” I half laugh. Was I not listening? I lay flat on my back, legs draped over the bed, the tips of my toes grazing the worn carpet. It is more coarse than soft, like the bristles of a wire brush, not terry cloth. 

“Surely,” she takes a breath, “surely, you have some kind of sexual fantasy.” 

“No,” I blurt out. This is an interrogation, a trick. This whole situation is a pull on my morals; Satan leading me astray. 

“You don't have to tell me,” she snorts, her nose wrinkling and mouth puckering, as if she were going for kiss. A movie kiss, in particular. “Just think about it, and tell me what you want to happen.”

“I'd like to learn how to,” I falter, the word gets stuck in my throat. It lodges itself so deeply that I am speechless. I just nod, in hopes that maybe Liane, in all her wonder, is a mind reader. 

“Masturbate,” she says as if it is just another word. “Yes, we've established that much.” She smiles, sitting next to me, still clothed. Then, out of nowhere, she sticks three fingers in my mouth. “Suck.”    
  
It’s an order, and I am good with orders. I do as I am told.    
  
“Make sure you get ‘em nice and wet, alright?” I nod, her fingers still in my mouth. I run my tongue along them, feeling the spaces between them, letting my tongue dip. “Good girl.”    
  
Against my will, I make a noise, a low moan. I feel my cheeks heat as she giggles, wiggling her fingers a bit.   
  
I think to complain when she takes them away, but before I can make a sound, she’s touching me. Her hand slides between my legs, little drops of spit, my spit, drip onto my thighs. But I don’t mind. I can’t mind, because within a moment, maybe even less, she’s rubbing me.    
  
“This is your clitoris,” she says softly. “I know Stephen never touched it, because I’ve fucked Stephen. He’s not good with his hands, and he seems like the sort who thinks you pee out your vagina.” 

She laughs and I nod, but I am not listening. I am spreading my legs, pulling my legs up onto the bed and planting my feet on either side, knees high in the air. It feels good, because of course it does. It even felt good with Stephen, for the thirty or so seconds sex took.   
  
It feels different though, a little bit electric. I open my eyes and she is smiling, a gentle smile. Reassurance. I buck up in response. I suppose, I am probably smiling too.    
  
“I’m not gonna bother with your g-spot tonight, if that’s alright, honey,” she is still smiling. I don’t say anything, just breathe in pants as her fingers move in little circles. “But again, what I’m doing is playing with your clit. You like that?”   
  
Her hands are wet against me, not soaking, but more than damp, until they aren’t. I can’t tell how long it’s been. My toes are curled into the sheets, pulling them up when I’m jolted. Something warm, but also cold, pools in my stomach. No, it’s lower than my stomach. I let out a strangled gasp, something impossible to keep in.    
  
“Want me to keep going?” She asks, slowing her movements.    
  
“Faster, Jesus, Liane,” I moan, and I know it’s a sin but I say, “goddamn it, faster.”     
  
“Alright, alright,” she laughs, but it isn’t mean. She isn’t mean. She’s a nice lady who I never gave a second look too until I needed her. I think about this for a moment, but am quickly distracted by her fingers.    
  
Christ, is she good with her hands.    
  
“What you thinking about?” She asks, furiously rubbing her fingers against me.    
  
“Christ,” I curse again, looking up at her breasts.    
  
“Whatcha thinking about?” She asks again, almost giggling.    
  
“I can see, nnnmph,” I groan, lifting off the bed as she changes rhythm.   
  
“What can you see?” She is teasing me. When I open my mouth she changes tactics. I swear this time she pinches me, but it doesn’t hurt. I am shouting something unintelligible and throwing myself upwards, hands in fists. I can feel the muscles around my thighs spasm as I feel the urge to shout and the urge to hold my breathe.    
  
“Just breathe,” she whispers, voice sultry. “You’re orgasming. Just let it feel nice.”    
  
And I do. Breathing in through my teeth and trying to ride this feeling out.    
  
“There we go,” she says, after a good thirty seconds of me gasping for air. “Go lay on the pillow. We’re gonna take a nap.” I don’t nod. I just do it. She beats me to the pillows, and maneuvers the blankets around me. 

“I normally charge a lot for this sort of thing,” she muses, letting me tuck into her side. “But I’ve always had a soft spot for ladies, blonde or otherwise.” 


End file.
